My father patted my hand and made himself comfortable in the chair. From beneath his arm, Sir Edward produced a worn, anonymous volume. I inclined my head in what I hoped was an attentive manner, closing my eyes. With luck, I would perhaps doze a little and they would excuse themselves appropriately.
Sir Edward cleared his voice and began to read:
Sweet rural scene!
Of flocks and green!
At careless ease my limbs are spread;
All nature still
But yonder rill;
And listening pines not o’er my head:
In prospect wide,
The boundless tide!
Waves cease to foam, and winds to roar;
Without a breeze,
The curling seas
Dance on, in measure, to the shore.
Who sings the source
Of wealth and force?
Vast field of commerce and big war:
Where wonders dwell!
Where terrors swell!
And Neptune thunders from his car?
I opened my eyes, startled, and looked at my father. He looked as startled as I felt and when he quickly averted his face, I realized he was hiding a smile. What swain, no matter his age or temperament, would read such a poem to an ill lady? The more I thought on it, the more I, too, saw the humor in it and had to bite my cheeks. My father, catching my eye, shook his head wryly and we exchanged little smiles.
The main! the main!
Is Britain’s reign;
Her strength, her glory, is her fleet;
The main! the main!
Be Briton’s strain;
As Triton’s strong, as Syren’s sweet.
Through nature wide,
Is nought descry’d
So rich in pleasure, or surprize;
When all-serene
How sweet the scene!
How dreadful, when the billows rise.
And storms deface
The fluid glass
In which ere-while Britannia fair
Look’d down with pride,
Like Ocean’s bride,
Adjusting her majestic air.
Sir Edward’s voice was deepening, taking on the same strange quality that it had at dinner the previous evening. I saw my father’s face slacken, his eyelids droop. Alarmed, I turned my attention back to Sir Edward, only to find his gaze fixed on me, his eyes seemingly black in the afternoon shadows, his voice as formal as any priest’s:
When rushes forth
The frowning North
On blackening billows, with what dread
My shuddering soul
Beholds them roll,
And hears their roarings o’er my head!
With terror mark
Yon flying bark!
Now, center-deep descend the brave;
Now, toss’d on high
It takes the sky,
A feather on the towering wave!
As he spoke, I found myself not in my room, but in my dream from the previous night: staring down, down, at the churning water as it parted, dreading what lay within its depths—
—and then there was a knock on my door, and Sir Edward’s voice stopped as if his throat had been cut. My father jerked awake with a cough and shook himself. Mr. Simmons carefully opened the door, and begged our pardon, but he had found the chest of papers the gentlemen had asked for.
“Excellent,” my father declared, stretching himself as if he had just awakened from a deep slumber. When he saw my expression, he added, “These are the plans your grandfather had drawn up when he first considered leasing the coast, my dear. The surveys and assessments.”
“But the land has long since given way,” I said. “I cannot see what interest they hold—”
“They are vastly interesting, Miss Daniels,” Sir Edward said. He had risen, the little book had vanished; once more he was merely a man. “As I have explained to your father, this bay is uniquely situated for a trading scheme my brother and I are considering, one with such profits as to make refurbishing the beachfront a financially viable proposition.” He nodded at my father. “Knowing what it once was, and what the soundings are close to the cliffs, will help me to assess the situation. Your neighbor Fitzroy has already shown me his surveys.”
My father gestured for him to go ahead, then came and sat on the edge of my bed. “He is an unusual fellow, is he not?” he whispered. Before I could reply he held up his hand. “I know—I know he is not what you might have imagined,” he continued, choosing his words with care. “I doubt you dreamed of an older gentleman who would read you such nonsense. All I ask, Caroline, is that you do not reject him before you know him. Give it a little time.” He hesitated again. “You would not want, with him. You would never want for anything, and to have that certainty... it has a value of its own.”
The emotion in his voice, the way his hand trembled—I felt my own tears rising. “Father,” I whispered, taking his hand in mine to stop that terrible shaking. “Of course I will do as you ask. Only I do not think he is interested in me at all.”
“He has asked about you,” he said. “Not directly, but he has brought you up many times—asking about your poor mother, our ancestors. I think it possible that an affection may emerge, given time?” He smiled then, shyly. “And perhaps you will forgive an old man for being more keen to enter into business with a son-in-law, rather than a friend.”
I could not think of how to respond. He seemed to take my silence as assent, and with a brief kiss on my cheek, left the room. I felt sick at heart. To have my father so hopeful! It overshadowed even the clippings, even the strange vision from dinner. No scenario I could conjure—even one that cast Miss Chase as Sir Edward’s vengeful, debauched mistress—lessened the pain my father would experience should his friendship with Sir Edward come to naught. His hopes were so earnest, so centered on my well-being, that I felt ashamed. Here he was trying to ensure my future, and I thinking only of that strange woman and her wild accusations.
My face burned. I tried to sleep. After all, I had engineered my own confinement, I might as well take advantage of the rest. Yet, I could not quiet my mind from its swirling images: Miss Chase’s grim looks; Sir Edward striding towards our coastline; those murdered, drowned bodies. My father’s hope. That strange, reptilian eye that had gazed upon me.
At some point that night, I awoke to darkness with a start. I felt convinced, utterly convinced, that the room was being flooded, that we were being carried away to the sea. Everything smelled and tasted of salt; my ears were roaring, roaring. The sensations were strong enough that when I swung my feet out of bed, I expected to feel water. In a panic, I opened my door and stepped into the hall. At once, all the sensations vanished and the air smelled normal once more, filled only with the soft creaks and sighs of our house.
For the first time in my life, I locked my bedroom door.
CHAPTER VII
An Outing
THE NEXT MORNING, I was roused by Mrs. Simmons rattling the doorknob. She seemed disturbed even when I offered poor dreams as an explanation, and hinted darkly that she was going to renew my father’s sentiments for a physician’s perspective. My subterfuge had run its course. Unwillingly, I roused myself and dressed, with many reassurances as to the state of my nerves. My head felt thick from the previous night. It was a relief to open the window to the clean, briny air and breathe deeply. My best course of action, I decided, was to bear the next few days as best I could. Perhaps once Sir Edward was gone, my father’s interest would wane.
I found the gentlemen in the drawing room, whereupon my father gladly welcomed me and helped me to a chair. “You are feeling better?” he inquired, pouring my tea.
“I feel some improvement, thank you,” I replied.
“As I told your father,” Sir Edward put in, “English blood like yours quickly rallies. Perhaps we might have our expedition today, then?”
“Our expedition?” I looked from his pleased expression to my father,
who had the grace to blush.
“Sir Edward has asked if we could walk with him to the bay,” he said. “So as to show us what he has in mind. I thought, perhaps, we could take the cabriolet, and he could ride—”
“Nonsense,” Sir Edward interrupted. “It is hardly any distance, and the fresh air would be the perfect tonic for Miss Daniel’s indisposition.”
Unbidden, the clippings loomed in my mind once more. The murders had all happened on coastal paths, far from any help. And yet... the thought of striding freely through the countryside, as my father’s companion rather than merely his daughter, was utterly compelling.
“I cannot think it wise for a young woman to go traipsing—” my father began.
“Look at her!” cried Sir Edward. “She is in fine fettle, perfectly capable. Aren’t you, Miss Daniels?”
There was a note of challenge in his voice, a half-smile on his lips, and I found myself saying, “Of course I am,” before I could properly think it through. But there was nothing for it. I could not bear to change my mind and give my father more cause to fret over me. All I could do was to ask for Mrs. Simmons to help me change my clothes, and instruct her carefully on where we were going, how long we might be, and when to send Mr. Simmons to ascertain our situation.
Not even the fear of death could undo the blustery drama of the day, or how good the spongy earth felt beneath my feet. It had rained in the night, leaving the world shimmering as if painted in dew. The air was invigorating, the scuttling clouds as awe-inspiring as a church. When Sir Edward pointed out my high color to my father, his voice ringing with approval, I even found myself smiling in return. He was a strange man indeed, a decidedly unnerving one, but a murderer? It seemed impossible that this melancholic gentleman could be in any way responsible for the ghastly crimes Miss Chase had sent to me. That I had given an iota of credence to her accusations seemed ridiculous now.
We kept up a good pace across the fields and the last few copses before the start of the coast. I had deliberately loosened my stays and breathed deeply with every stride, and it was marvelous. Thankfully, Diana was not there to witness my pinking skin and my poor figure. The thought of her scolding me made me stifle a laugh.
As we walked, my father and Sir Edward kept up a conversation about trade and the colonies, and it warmed my heart to see my father so animated. Only now did I understand how limited his society had become in the years following my mother’s death. The villagers were good people, but their conversation was fixed upon the same subjects—the weather, their dealings with markets and merchants, and gossip. I knew my father had traveled before marrying, and when I was very young he would often go to town with Uncle Stuart. Losing my mother had circumscribed his world, and those borders had grown smaller over time. It was no wonder that he was so taken with Sir Edward’s company, and hopeful of some stronger connection between them.
When at last we came in sight of the water, I sighed aloud with delight. The regular crests of the waves, the endless blue sky right to the horizon—they undid all my dark imaginings at once, for what horror could lie beneath such beauty? I had not been to the coast since well before the winter, and I had not realized how much I missed it. The crisp air made my skin tingle and my heart race. It was life, life, and I knew that no matter what, I would insist upon these walks going forward.
As I stood there, savoring the moment, it struck me: the birds still hadn’t returned. No gulls careened over the water, nor had a note of song touched the air for the entirety of our walk.
“Stunning, is it not?”
Sir Edward’s voice jolted me out of my thoughts. He was suddenly close, very close, and I repressed an instinctive shudder. “You were correct, sir,” I said. “The air has revived me wonderfully. Only I cannot think why the birds haven’t returned.”
“The birds?” He frowned at me.
“They flew inland some days ago, and we have not seen one since.”
“Why, it is the wrong time of year for sea birds,” Sir Edward replied promptly. “They migrate further north in the warmer months. Most coastal birds do.”
I knew this to be wrong, but I could not think of how to say it without sounding argumentative. I looked for my father, but he had moved away from us, and was intently studying the horizon with a little smile on his face. Sir Edward took my arm and steered me in the other direction, close to the cliff’s edge, and I tensed in anticipation.
“Your father,” he said in a low voice, “is intent that you come to your own decision.”
I swallowed. “I cannot think what you mean.”
“About the bay.” He stopped and pointed, turning me like a doll until I was following his arm to his satisfaction. “I think we can shore the land here, and add stairs down. There is enough of a beach below to drive the first pilings in, and then we can work from the start of the pier to extend it out.”
“Oh!” I felt a rush of relief. “Yes, I see. Only I cannot but think the cost would exceed any fishing profits we might recoup.”
“You misunderstand me,” he said. “My interest in your property, and this bay, is purely to further my own business.” He had stepped even closer to me; I could feel the heat of his breath on my ear. “My brother and I have many trading partners. It would be to our advantage to have a dedicated pier for our merchandise, one that would spare us the delays of inspections.”
I looked at him then, trying to keep my tone light. “Why, Sir Edward! Don’t tell me you are a smuggler after all?”
“I assure you, Miss Daniels,” he said, “my activities have the highest approbation.”
“That will be a relief to your wife, should you marry,” I replied.
He looked at me then, and it was the same dark stare as when he had been reading to me. I could see a faint line of sweat at the edge of his wig, despite the blustery day. “Any wife of mine, Miss Daniels,” he said quietly, “would serve God and country, as I do.”
I cannot say exactly what happened then. I felt not pushed exactly, but nudged forward, as if a breeze had blown solely at my back. Sir Edward caught me as I slipped forward with a cry of alarm, sending a shooting pain through my hand. I glimpsed the frothing waters of the bay below me, and what looked for all the world like a vast, dark shape, curved in mimicry of the bay’s edge, before I was violently jerked back onto safe ground.
My father rushed towards us as Sir Edward quickly led me away from the edge. When I opened my hand, a short, deep cut ran across the rise of flesh below my thumb, a line that was quickly obscured by my rising blood.
“Caroline!” my father cried. “Caroline, are you all right?”
“I just lost my balance,” I said quickly. “I’m fine, really, only I cannot think how...”
Sir Edward pressed his handkerchief over my wound. “This is my doing, I’m afraid,” he said with an appropriately contrite expression. “One of my buttons has a sharp edge. You must have grabbed it when I steadied you.” He held out the cuff of his coat sleeve, where there was indeed a button with a broken edge. Yet, what I had felt was a distinctly stabbing pain.
He eased away the handkerchief, showing a bright red blot, and my father gasped. “We must get you back to the house.”
“It’s just a cut,” I said, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. “I will be fine, I promise.”
But he was already hurrying me back towards the trees while fumbling for his own handkerchief. As we left, I glanced back to see if Sir Edward was following. He was carefully knotting the bloody handkerchief around something the size of a man’s fist—a stone? As I watched, he tied it; then, with a great stretch of his arm, flung the kerchief and its weight out into the water. Only then did he turn and fall into step behind us, soon catching up with long strides, whereupon he took turns with me in reassuring my father that my injury was most unremarkable.
As we walked, an idea came to me. I turned to Sir Edward and asked him for the handkerchief. “Mrs. Simmons has a knack for removing such stains,” I said. “A
nd if she cannot, I would be pleased to replace it.”
“It is no matter, Miss Daniels,” he replied, patting his pockets. “I think I dropped it in my haste. Certainly, it is not on my person. It is probably floating away on the tide as we speak.”
It wasn’t the truth, but it wasn’t a complete lie either, and I could not think of what else to say.
CHAPTER VIII
A Second Dinner
THAT AFTERNOON I sat down to dinner with my hand neatly bandaged and a full glass of wine for my suffering. After some solicitous comments about my injury, my father turned the conversation back to the previous topic—which was, unsurprisingly, the profit that might be gained from leasing our coastline to Sir Edward. My father’s eagerness made me wince, but I, too, was intrigued to hear just what this man might offer us.
“My brother and I determined many years ago that our most financially sound path lay in the Atlantic trade,” Sir Edward said. “It is the foundation of our Empire. It can bring an Englishman nothing but benefit, for to invest in this trade is to invest in the lifeblood of England. We turned our complete attention to the sea and how we might best nourish England’s prospects, and thus our own.”
“Of course, of course,” my father said. His face was ruddy and I wondered how many glasses he had imbibed already. “We are nothing without the sea.”
“Exactly.” He beamed at my father. “That is exactly right, Theophilus.”
His patronizing tone, the way he looked at my father—
“When you say the Atlantic trade,” I said sharply, “you are talking about the trade in men, are you not? You are talking about slavery.”
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